


Is Your Figure Less Than Greek?

by Matloc



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Akashi worshipping Kuroko, I couldn't think of other things that are prominently blue haha sorry, M/M, Purple Prose, Someone needs to get a grater for all dis cheese, kikuro as bffs, sculptor!AU, that's always great, this should be my default tag srsy, too much sky & ocean imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:30:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3634977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matloc/pseuds/Matloc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akashi is a renowned sculptor obsessed with beauty and perfection. He meets Kuroko, who is far from the perfection he creates with his own hands, yet the two end up becoming lovers as if it were written in fate.</p><blockquote>
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <em>Seijuurou has always sought beauty in marble white, but this is the first time he sees it glide in shades of blue.</em><br/></p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	Is Your Figure Less Than Greek?

**Author's Note:**

> as you can tell from the title, this was inspired by the song My Funny Valentine. 
> 
> I wrote 1/4th of it near the end of March, took a break and ended up writing the rest in one day so sorry for any grammatical errors etc it's 6 in the morning i have lost the ability to read
> 
> warning: i know nothing about sculpting pls forgiv any consequent ignorance

 

 

There is beauty in perfection. Beauty in the way everything has an order to it that, when followed, paints even the smallest of rocks into the stars that dot our skies.

There is nothing more satisfying than watching puzzle pieces fit together perfectly, watching books arranged so neatly, not an inch out of place, and it’s most pleasing to the eye when sceneries look so amazing that they’ve popped right out of a painting, and he is the happiest when he’s running his hands over a smooth plane devoid of any cracks, any faults. Pure perfection, the most beautiful.

That is why Akashi Seijuurou went against his father’s wishes and enrolled into art school. Because Seijuurou’s hands are perfection, his sole mission is to use those hands of his to create perfection, because only perfection can reproduce itself. It replicates, it transforms, it transcends human bounds when it itself is molded by perfection. By perfect hands—his hands.

It comes to him naturally at the age of 8, when he imprints the season of autumn on leaves carved elegantly into wood. It stays with him when he pares insignificant oak blocks into birds just a month later, and his teacher confesses to being afraid that they might just fly away. It grows with him when his fingers dig into the cold of formless clay, giving it the life of leaping lions and dancing does. It becomes perfection when he holds a chisel three years later, reanimating Greek gods out of marble.

He recounts that moment as his first memory of chancing upon true beauty, the kind you only find in the sharp arch of a jaw, the masculine jut of bones lining the expanse of white under the neck, the smooth curve of feminine hips, the piercing eyes of pristine marble. Gods whose legends died eons ago—but Seijuurou is the one who brings back the awe in human worship as they behold his creations.

It only took a call to an influential friend of his middle school art teacher to have critics from all over flood his first exhibition, and their snark over inappropriate age (“You tell me now that a world famous artist has brought us to see the work of a child? Has he gone mad!”) and lack of experience is immediately stuck in their throats as they witness a masterpiece standing before them.

It is not just once or twice that humanity is assaulted by perfection within the lavish walls of an auditorium, because everything Seijuurou has created garners congeries of praise about bringing back the long lost glory of an ancient civilization.

The unanimous commendation doesn't escape the starving ears of reporters, only lured in by Seijuurou's title as Akashi heir, certainly not because of any personal interest that would earn them the ability to tell Donatello apart from Michelangelo. Not that such knowledge is needed when even the most uncultured eyes can tell that Akashi Seijuurou has left a mark in this world that is uniquely his own.

It doesn't take long for these findings to make their way into newspapers, middle-market magazines, and scholastic journals. The big ones heralded the makings of a prodigy. The trashier ones stayed true to their reputation by forgoing any attempts at artistic ostentation, in favor of jeering at his age, or his bearing as an Akashi.

Seijuurou did not care for such frivolities back then, nor does he care now. The hype had subsided with time, only spiking when the prodigy breathes life into another statue. But prodigy or not, it is not an easy process, as one would think. It takes great time and care to bring forth perfection, even more so in Seijuurou's case. He is certainly not one for mistakes, so he puts in unimaginable efforts in every curve of a shoulder, every curl of lips, every cut of stone muscle, as though his life were at stake. He holds the patience of a million monks and it shows in feather caresses on the splay of his marble creations. No touch is too gentle, no knock of chisel and hammer too loud, and no carving too deep.

It comes to fruition when he finally finishes the last swell of flattering muscle, or the last concave of hour glass waist. His gods and goddesses deserve nothing less. From Zeus to Hades, from Aphrodite to Persephone, they are all impeccable. Perfect. Beautiful. It truly takes great time and care to bring forth beauty in perfection.

Which is why Seijuurou is nothing less than baffled when one Kuroko Tetsuya unfurls it so naturally. With a cerulean crown on his skull, wind-kissed tresses of blue so light they look like petals of snow dancing under the sun. With even lighter eyelashes that frame an endless sea of blue-tinted emotions. Seijuurou has always sought beauty in marble white, but this is the first time he sees it glide in shades of blue.

Because when he bumps into Kuroko Tetsuya for the first time in a busy hallway of Tokyo's most famous art school, he almost misses it. The small voice that intones a practiced apology, the small head that floats back into the crowd of students. He doesn't even know how long he stands there, turned away from the direction he was going in. He doesn't even know how that boy had eluded his sight for so long, because he can't rip his eyes away from the tiny figure that has broken into his vision just then, slipping out just as quickly. He watches and watches, until the boy fades away like some ghost of the snow.

Perhaps, if Seijuurou were a romantic, he would have chased after that specter of sky and snow. But he only ever does care for the cold touch of stone, so he turns around and heads back to his work space.

 

* * *

 

It has already been a year now, however, since their first encounter. Somewhere along the way, Seijuurou does develop the sentiments of a romantic, because he's the only one who remembers it. Tetsuya can only recall their second meet as their beginning, and Seijuurou has found that he doesn’t mind the misconception.

Tetsuya, that person is currently sleeping in a bed Seijuurou had arranged for his work station. Inspiration tends to strike him at unusual times, and he was perhaps even stranger for finding comfort sleeping amongst a soulless array of marble white perfection. He spends more time sculpting than he does in rest, so a bed had become a necessary utility in his work space.

Though, nowadays he does put his bed to better use. One that is much more satisfying. A familiar sensation spikes inside him at the thought, it bubbles at the sight of the sleeping figure in his bed, so defenseless and inviting, but the rough jab of stone reminds him of the incomplete bust in his hands. Augustus will not be complete without his customary aristocratic frown, after all.

Augustus rests on the table while Seijuurou peruses his reference sketch of the ancient emperor. It is a rough imitation, mere scratches on paper, but he will bring it to perfection soon. Make it beautiful. This is not the first time he has carved things of ungodly heritage, but there have been legends within the tongues of humans who have come close to perfection. All Seijuurou needs to do then is put his own finishing touch. Then the world shall once more see the beauty he finds in stone.

That is the beauty the world seeks, and then there is the beauty that no one looks for. The kind that is missed all too easily if you do not know where to look. The kind that is fleeting, vanishing in the blink of an eye. The kind he only sees in Tetsuya.

 

* * *

 

It is during their second encounter that Seijuurou realizes that's all there is to that fleeting ghost. His color of the sky. It is the only thing worth noting as he pops into his vision again, seemingly out of nowhere. It explains his lack of presence. Seijuurou can't find it unless he actively searches for it.

That seems to be his pattern. He does not appear to you unless you look for him. Does not speak unless spoken to. Some might find it to be a disappointing trait, but it is convenient for Seijuurou as he picks Tetsuya's deserted table inside a crowded study hall.

Seijuurou sounds his request, hand leaning on the chair across from the blue-haired male. "May I sit here?"

It is near comical when the shorter one whips his head up, looking absolutely flabbergasted. He gathers his bearings soon after and nods. It is a tentative gesture, as though he is not used to company. Seijuurou figures, remembering the weak presence blending inside the maze of bookcases from his view at the entryway, that it is not fully out of choice.

The study hall is teeming with agitated students, but the threat of midterms looms over their heads and keeps the room pin drop silent.

Seijuurou takes the chance to study the face of his silent companion. His big blue eyes and rounded face give him the appearance of a child. It reminds Seijuurou why he is hardly ever interested in human faces, most lack the sharp edge that he toils night and day to mold from marble. The strong line of nose missing, the cheekbones soft, jaw curved.

Just like that Seijuurou deems last time as a mere trick of sunlight, and loses interest.

The two sit there, still marionettes in a sea of restless students. Neither moves until a sudden gust snatches away a piece of paper folded under an art history book. The two reach out at the same time, but Seijuurou's arms are longer.

The paper flaps open in his grip, giving him a mirror view of the hall in a pencil sketch. But that is not what catches his attention; the people are all replaced by cats. Beautifully detailed varieties of cats. He sees a sphynx poring over a book too big for its head. A tabby on the brink of falling asleep on the table. The ragamuffin next to it having already lost itself to the temptation. An ocelot reaching up for a high-set book. He is sure that should he turn around he will see the human counterparts in flawless imitation.

The closest and most detailed one is a Chantilly poised in its signature regal posture, smoldering eyes perusing a book on Renaissance art and architecture—is that meant to be Seijuurou?

"How interesting," the remark steals from Seijuurou's upturned lips. He has been here for no more than half an hour, and the other person has already given life-like description to his feline parody. Without drawing a lick of his awareness, to boot. Indeed, what he finds most interesting is how the specter has managed such a surreptitious feat, silent like a cat himself.

"Please give it back." He requests, the slight narrowing of eyes his only indication of annoyance. It draws in Seijuurou a shallow curiosity, to explore every nuance in the barren planes of the doll face. He kills it instantly.

He returns the paper, commenting, "You need not be so abashed. I quite adore the subtle elegance of it all. In fact, I am honored to be part of it." It is an honest remark. Seijuurou doesn't share much fondness for cats, but he still finds them a rather clever twist to what would have otherwise been a drab still life.

His companion blinks his wide blue eyes. Seijuurou remembers he might not be used to company, and, by extension, random comments on his sketches. Nevertheless, he deserves several if he pours such creative insight into every drawing.

"Thank you." He finally smiles, humble and rose-tinted.

It is Seijuurou's turn to be surprised. He sees the red swell of cheeks too round, the pink curve of lips too small, features he has long dismissed in his venture for god-like perfection. The snow ghost he now sees is undeniably human, alive and red-blooded, a portrait of everything Seijuurou outright avoids in his sculpting for beauty.

Yet he realizes, as he watches the droopy, doll contours of a round face light up in happiness, that he now has no air to breathe.

"Akashi-san is very kind." The human that is too life-like to be a ghost continues.

"It is only customary to give praise where it's due," Seijuurou replies smoothly, "Though I must add a complaint. That you know my name when I do not know yours."

"Akashi-san is well-known in the art community," the other replies flatly, "You are an idol to many."

Seijuurou raises a fine brow, holding his chin in thought. "I was not aware," he confesses. He is by no means some belligerent loner, but he does not particularly seek the company of others. This is certainly news to him.

The blue-haired male only studies him for a few moments, then drops back to his book. And that is the last of their interactions. Seijuurou notes that his companion has yet to give him a name. He does not ask for it.

The inquisitive itch in his throat remains until the blue sky disappears.

 

* * *

 

 

It is in their third meeting that Seijuurou learns his name. Courtesy of Kise Ryouta, oddly enough.

"Akashicchi!" he looks up from the newspaper into ebullient amber eyes. His own instantly dart towards the blue-haired male standing behind the model. "I haven't seen you in ages!" Ryouta cries, much too loud and lively under the silver drapes hiding the morning sun.

"Ryouta," he greets, "It is rare to see you walking around so early."

It is not a surprise to see him here in this café, however. Ryouta was the who introduced him to this quaint little establishment, after all. The elegant wood decor and quiet atmosphere had soon won him over, and he's since then made it his morning nest.

Ryouta pouts in a way that Seijuurou knows has won many fans over before. "Yeah, I've got an early shoot." He complains, but his moods tend to switch faster than lights on a disco ball, so he smiles and grabs his companion by the shoulders. "That reminds me, you haven't met Kurokocchi yet, have you? He's my best friend in the whole world, so be nice!" He shows off said person like a trophy, and based on what Seijuurou has gathered from their conversation two days ago, he is no skeptic to the boy's worth. Most of which is hidden beneath that impassive demeanor of his, like a flower in bloom that is buried in snow.

Kise's ribs meet a painful jab and he doubles over, without losing grip on his captive. "Please don't be so embarrassing." Tetsuya chides without any real bite, turning back to Seijuurou, "I apologize for forgetting to give you my name last time. I am Kuroko Tetsuya. It is nice to meet you, Akashi-san." He bows, and for a moment Seijuurou thinks he is back at the mansion, tens of servants greeting him at the entrance with the same unnecessary subservience.

"Eh?" Ryouta interrupts before he could reply, but his minor irritation fades as he rolls the new name on the back of his tongue.

_Tetsuya._

"You two already know each other?" asks Ryouta, disappointed.

"We have met once before." Seijuurou supplies, watching in mild amusement how Tetsuya squirms in Ryouta's no doubt iron grip that he himself has been subject to on many occasions. "Why don't you sit down?" he gestures to the plush couch facing him.

"Sure, thanks! I’ve got a lot to talk about with Akashicchi." Ryouta nudges Tetsuya forward, who doesn’t hide his reluctance.

"We shouldn't disturb him, Kise-kun." He argues.

"I insist." He is shot down instantly by what anyone could tell is not some mere request. He throws Seijuurou a look that makes him want to smirk in return, though he does look pleased when Tetsuya obeys and sits across him, with Ryouta next to him.

They begin a conversation to catch up with each other’s lives, though Seijuurou soon loses interest, opting to watch the two in front of him interact. Side by side, they comprise a blatant contrast of cosmic proportions. If Ryouta is blazing like the sun then Tetsuya is shrouded in ice. That frigid composure soon melts into blunt jabs and deadpan comments on Ryouta's expense, although the blond seems to be enjoying it. And, if the faint smile playing on his lips is any indication, so is Tetsuya.

The conversation finishes with Ryouta's cappuccino. He throws the empty cup in the waste basket and bids them goodbye, promising to meet Tetsuya in the afternoon. The blue-haired male gets up next, vanilla shake in hand, clearly intending to follow Ryouta out.

But Seijuurou stops him once again, "Please, do stay." Because he does intend to study this interesting specimen some more. When Tetsuya opens his mouth to protest, he continues, "I am certain you have no prior duties to uphold this early in the morning." And he is right; the world still walks on quiet footsteps as the sun continues to hide its glow behind silver clouds.

Tetsuya relents, sinking into the cushion. "Then I thank you for having me, Akashi-san."

Seijuurou, who has had his share of rowdy companions, reckons that Tetsuya is far too polite for his taste. He thinks back on a few minutes ago, seeing Tetsuya so animated by Ryouta's blinding presence, and finds himself wishing to bring life into this doll like he does to his statues. "There is no need to be formal with me, Tetsuya. Knowing Ryouta, I believe we will be meeting with each other quite often now."

Tetsuya blinks at the usage of his name. "... very well, Akashi-kun." There is a pang of disappointment because that was not quite what Seijuurou was going for, but it disappears as he notices Tetsuya loosen up his rigid posture. He sees warmth he has not witnessed before, he sees the inimical frost behind blue eyes evaporate and decides that he will make do with this.

For now.

 

* * *

 

 

It begins with small greetings and short-lived interactions. Every new thing about Tetsuya, he files into the back of his mind and memorizes it in the dark of night. It is when he starts wanting to learn about Tetsuya's body that he takes it a step further.

It grows into flighty touches and furtive glances of untold promises. Always in the privacy of their rooms, never outside. After some point, they cannot tell anymore who initiates, though Seijuurou develops a penchant for pushing Tetsuya into a corner to see how he would react. He likes to prod at the blue-haired phantom, to see the sky in his eyes burn like stars or twist like storms. He feels like he can reach out to the ocean behind Tetsuya's eyes. He feels like he might just drown in blue.

A year later he finds himself in bed with Tetsuya. He is not a total hopeless romantic, no he does not think that he has found what he had long lost, let alone entertain some cliché notion that he had lost a part of himself in the first place like halves to a soulmate.

But as he looks down to see that he holds the sky and the sea in his arms, he believes something has fallen into place.

It is an entirely foreign feeling. One he cannot invoke even with the stone cold caress of marble. The day he maps so fervent Tetsuya's body is the day he asks himself if he's losing his senses.

Because as he looks at Augustus now, as his gaze travels to the gods he has emulated from pristine stone, he knows that his lover's body is hardly a match. Even in his human realism Tetsuya is barely more than a waif. And although Seijuurou has since traced every muscle with his fingers, his tongue, they are nothing compared to the prominent cut in every inch of Aries's abdomen. The masculinity he so lovingly carved into his gods, it exists only in the barest of flickers along the wax of Tetsuya's skin.

That is not to say he is the symbol of femininity either. Tetsuya is indeed softer in form compared to his own, from the arch of his shoulders to the pliant flesh that kisses his spine and travels down to the delectable curve that Seijuurou's hands can't get enough of. (Much to Tetsuya's chagrin.) But there is no smooth swell of hips that he often caresses on his goddesses.

Tetsuya is nothing like the perfection in his sculptures, and perhaps not a universal icon of attractiveness like Ryouta, and yet—

The pale expanse of his neck that stretches into sight when Tetsuya throws his head back still makes him want to reach in and mark it with the bloom of violet flowers. There is this arch in his throat Seijuurou often wants to sink his teeth into. The way he writhes chaotic, undulates—a tempest under his touch, in his bed, so unlike the perfect stillness of statues.

But more importantly:

It is the way he laughs, head turned to the side, mouth covered in polite fashion, as though he is trying to imitate demure princesses. It is the way a faint pink rushes onto his cheeks when he does laugh, or when he smiles in pure delight. Never before has Seijuurou seen anyone who blushes when they are happy, but Tetsuya was a bundle of serendipity from the very beginning.

It is the way his impassive expression breaks with the spirit in his eyes. They are an ocean of thoughts, of opinions, of dreams and desires. They are the sky of a thousand emotions buried in the snow of aloof smiles and taciturn remarks.

But Tetsuya is fire when they argue their oft-contradictory viewpoints. His words burn into his skin and blaze through the synapses in his brain, until they ignite a passion Seijuurou has never felt outside the rough edge of cold marble. It scorches the ends of rhyme and reason until he becomes a moth drawn to Tetsuya's flames, letting them dance on his body as Seijuurou takes him in his bed.

It is the way Tetsuya tends to be frustrating and stubborn, but Seijuurou is equally as fierce and immobile and he cherishes it all regardless.

Tetsuya is a puzzle with jagged pieces that don't quite fit; he is not the perfect beauty Seijuurou relentlessly implores from his marble creations.

But he does not need to be, Seijuurou realizes. Tetsuya instead fosters a distinct sort of beauty, it is not stone cold but warm and tender. It drips from the snow of his hair into the azure of his eyes. It drips onto Seijuurou's lips in kisses and lovely words. He is ice and fire and the water in between that gives life to still drawings etched by his hands, it gives life to the fervor that emblazons his name into Seijuurou's heart.

It is a kind of beauty hidden in private smiles and a delicate tilt of the head. In soft words that fall like feathers, and pour like rain other times. It is beauty Seijuurou finds in Tetsuya's contradictions, his complexities. Tetsuya is not a smooth plane with no dents, no flaws. He is a ball of spikes, some that bend to his hand and others that pierce sweet poison into his soul.

It is within the cracks of Tetsuya's inconsistencies that Seijuurou embeds parts of himself. Like pieces to different puzzles, they clash roughly at times, but they still work around the slots and end up making up a beautiful image much different from what they could have made on their own self. It is more abstract, more novel, more intricate and it dazzles Seijuurou like the pristine cut of marble never could.

Since birth, Seijuurou has sought beauty in gods frozen in marble white, but he finds a different kind in distinctive shades of blue. It is vivid, it is _alive_. It is not stone. It freezes. It burns. It is not perfection, yet it is much more.

"Seijuurou-kun," the sleeping figure is now sitting up in his bed. The sheets pool around him as though Tetsuya is a god who rests in an altar of white, and Seijuurou is the fanatic who's driven himself mad with the desire to worship his body until all the oceans in their galaxy dry up into stars. "Can we please never do it here again?"

Seijuurou hides a smile, "What seems to be bothering you, Tetsuya?" He questions innocently.

Tetsuya shifts awkwardly and points at the glass cases in the room. "Forgive me but I do not like your sculptures staring at me, however beautiful they might be."

Seijuurou allows a light laugh at that. "I shall cover them with sheets next time, then."

"There will be no next time here." Tetsuya declares but Seijuurou ignores him in favor of examining the spot where Augustus's nose will be. He hears the rustle of clothes as his hand meets the rough texture of stone. He feels the gentle press of lips on the line of his shoulder. He feels the warm breath tickle his skin as the sky and the fire and the snow and the ocean carve a greeting into the sculpture of his bones.

He smiles and turns around.

And he drowns.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> sooo a different writing style once again oops sorry?
> 
> in other news, ATG is nearing its final act now.
> 
> see ya guise! (。-ω-)ﾉ


End file.
